


To Be Young Again

by Vivian



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, bartender!Dwalin, fluff-ish, teacher!Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is a Latin teacher in a new city. After a hard day's work he goes to have a drink and meets the silent but somehow charming bartender Dwalin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Young Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostchild90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostchild90/gifts).



> This is for Ghostchild90, becauseyou were in a bad mood yesterday and I wanted to cheer you up. I hope you like this, honey! <3

 

Thorin marches down the corridor with the conviction of an executioner having the guillotine in sight. The only difference is, he has nothing in sight, in particular nothing that looks like the number of the class room he should've attended five minutes ago. It's the beginning of the year and he's been in this school only a couple of times and only ever to the headmasters' secretary's office. He clenches his fists and takes the next corner. And nearly bumps into someone.

“Good lord,” an exasperated voice says (American). He looks up at a tall man. He's got long blond hair and wears a suit that must equal the value of his car. A hand with perfectly manicured nails straightens his tie.

“Sorry,” he rumbles and holds out his hand. “Thorin Oakenshield.”

The man rises an eyebrow at his hand. With the tilt of his head and a quirk of his lips he says: “Doctor Thranduil Oropherion.” The way he stresses his title makes Thorin want to rip every single blond hair out.

“You must be new,” Thranduil says with a condescending smile.

“Hm,” Thorin makes, holding back the urge to wrap his fingers around that throat. If this isn't a perfect start into the year.

“Well, I have to get going,” Thranduil says and turns on his heel. Thorin doesn't ask him for directions to his classroom. He'll rather come too late than ask this posh arsehole.

 

Some five minutes later he's found the damn room.

He opens the door and the chatting and laughing of children greets him. Why does he do this job again? If they had told him at university–but not now.

“Silence!” he rumbles and immediately they stop talking. Heads snap up. He strides in and puts his heavy briefcase on the teacher's desk.

“I am your new Latin teacher, Mr Oakenshield. Open your books on page 4.”

Shuffling, muffled murmurs. Books are opened. A few shy glances in his direction.

“You all will buy a book to write grammar in. I expect you to have it with you tomorrow. You will learn everything by heart that I dictate. We start with conjugations.”

 

The first week passes. There is still a lot of paper work he has to do, but slowly he settles into a routine. He also starts buying some new furniture for his flat. It does not yet look like home, but it soon enough will. At least as much as anything ever looks like home.

In the faculty room things are OK apart from that posh tall blonde bastard. Thorin finds out he's teaching politics and English. Nobody seems to like him much, except for the female teachers (Thorin suspects at least three of them to have a crush on him and he further suspects Thranduil knows and uses it in any way possible.) They don't talk again, but every now and then they glance at each other, Thranduil smiling that fucking toffee-nosed smile. Thorin only ever gives him his best murderous stare. What a wanker.

 

Finally it's Friday again. Thorin feels the strong need for a drink. He doesn't have alcohol home yet, so he just walks the streets until he finds a small bar. It's dimly lit inside, there's a jukebox in a corner and currently Motörhead's _Ace of Spades_ is blasting out of the speakers. Maybe four or five fellows are in. Thorin walks to the bar. 

“Whiskey sour,” he says. The bartender turns towards him. Thorin is not exactly small, but this guy is fucking huge. Broad shoulders and well formed muscles on his arms, strong, rough hands – he swallows unconsciously. Under thick brows small piercing eyes look at him. He is mostly bald on the top of his head, but grey-black, wild hair curtains the sides and goes over into a wiry beard. He has an air around him that is tender and rough at the same time and also says don't fuck with me in every move he makes. With a _clack_ he smacks Thorin's glass on the gritty counter. They look at each other for a split second. 

After another whiskey and two beers, one he actually shares with the bartender – Dwalin his name, they still don't really talk, but it still feels like they are sharing time.

 

Thorin never looked much like a teacher with his black clothes, the heavy boots and straight, clear-cut coats so it's not a surprise when he tells Dwalin about his pupils and Dwalin laughs. Currently he's trying to get  _esse_ (being) and its forms into their heads. 

“Only had two years of French before I dropped out,” Dwalin says in his Scottish accent that Thorin grumpily finds charming.

“Too many exceptions,” Thorin replies, “I like straight languages.” Dwalin rises his eyebrows at that and shoves another beer over the counter.

“Also French poetry is so flowery. I like German poetry after '45. It's harsh and real.”

Dwalin takes a swig of his beer and Thorin feels like he's said too much, so he shuts up the rest of the evening. Dwalin is possibly the only person he's ever met who talks even less than him.

He kinda likes that.

 

By the time that he's doing  _meus, mea, meum_ at class it has become a habit to go drink with Dwalin every Friday night. Apart from his nephews Dwalin is the only person he continuously has contact with. His nephews Fili and Kili both live in student homes and it's nice to finally see them more often. But they are so young, so energetic it is exhausting at times no matter how much he loves them. In their faces he can still see Dís. It stings every time. 

Still, it's Thursday they have coffee at one of these fancy places that pop up everywhere (Starbucks, what a stupid name for a coffee chain.). He waits for them outside, they are late. Again.

When they arrive, they are not alone. A ginger and a blonde accompany them. Both tall and lean. He dislikes both of them immediately. Even more when he looks at the tall blonde guy and –

“Uncle! You won't believe it! Legolas says his father works at the same school as you,” Kili shouts out with glee that makes Thorin cringe. To be fair, the lad looks rather uncomfortable with that. He's very polite when he introduces himself and shakes Thorin's hand. The ginger girl is definitely too close to Kili, Thorin does not approve of it. She's a bit cheeky in the way she talks and probably charming. But she also is a trouble maker, Thorin can practically smell it on her. This resentment of authority, the strong will and the lust for adventure.

The kind that would break Kili's heart. Not because of spite, but because someone like her won't settle down, won't  _stop_ in her tracks to be in love. 

Now that he looks at it, the offspring of Thranduil seems rather infatuated with her, too. Oh well.

 

When he tells Dwalin about it the next evening, Dwalin leans over the counter and takes a sip of Thorin's whiskey.

“To be young again,” he says with a little smile. Thorin looks up at him. He hadn't taken Dwalin for the melancholy type.

“I'm glad I survived youth,” Thorin mutters. Dwalin snorts.

“Bet you were a prick,” Dwalin says kindly.

Thorin has to laugh. “Yes I was.”

“Got all the girls crazy for you huh?”

“I wasn't interested in them,” Thorin says with a shrug.

 

It's never crowded in the bar, but the next Friday night he arrives, he's literally the only costumer there. Midnight has passed already but Dwalin didn't call it a night and welcomes him with a nod and a beer. A little devilish voice in his head says that maybe he is the reason why Dwalin didn't lock up just yet. The thought leaves a prickling feeling in his belly. He decides to get very drunk.

The more they drink, the more they talk. Dwalin tells him about his youth in Glasgow and how he moved to London on his own when he was 19.

“Lived in a hostel for a year. Couldn't afford an apartment,” he says it with a fondness that surprises Thorin.

“Was it hard?” he asks.

“Yeah, but also a good time. Lots of interesting people passing by.”

“Huh,” says Thorin and takes another sip of his whiskey. At some point Dwalin moves around the bar and sits down next to him. The world starts spinning a little, but Thorin doesn't mind. He thinks of _posse_ (can) and how he'll teach it to his pupils and he thinks of what he can or could do. Slowly he rubs his middle and index finger over the gritty surface of the counter, staring at the ring of his father that he still wears. Then he's standing. He's not sure what he wanted to do and he's not sure when Dwalin got up, too.

Then he's pressed against a wall – how the hell did he get there? – and Dwalin is pushing against his shoulders, eyes smouldering and hot. Thorin gasps, then they are kissing. It hits him with the force of a volcano exploding. The desire, the need, the  _hunger_ – 

He tears at Dwalin's shirt, scratches along his back, wants to make him hurt. And Dwalin is rough, but tender, too, and Thorin doesn't know how he can be both at the same time, but he wants this, yes, and more. It's that moment that Dwalin drops to his knees and opens his belt. Heat spreads through his entire body like liquid gold, bubbling and burning.

“Wait–” he barks out. Dwalin looks up at him and there is a fraction of uncertainty. “Please,” Thorin adds, then lower: “take me home.”

Dwalin rises up and his smile is back, and Thorin really likes the way he smiles, with his whole face, every muscle involved and still it's somewhat subtle.

The way to Dwalin's flat is all but a blur. The pavement is shiny from rain and the golden light of street lamps. The wind is cool, but not freezing and nothing against the heat of Dwalin's arm around his shoulders. Stairs, one, two, three floors up. Dust in the air. Inside. They're shedding their clothes like skin until there's only raw muscle and meat. Now Thorin drops to his knees and he can feel Dwalin tensing, his thick, strong fingers in Thorin's hair. Yes, he thinks, yes. The next second he takes Dwalin down his throat, he's always a bit rough when he gives head, but Dwalin seems to like it well enough. At some point he's pulled up again and Dwalin pushes him to the bed. They kiss, slowly now, thoughtfully maybe. Dwalin's tongue slips between his lips, he traces the row of his teeth then he sucks on Thorin's tongue gently. Meanwhile his hands move over Thorin's body, take everything, he thinks, and Dwalin does, he conquers with the force of a saint. He splays him open with his fingers and his tongue, takes his time before he rolls a condom over his cock and pushes in. Dwalin grabs his chin with his free hand and forces him to look him in the eye while he moves inch after inch into Thorin. A rough moan comes from his lips, he digs his nails into Dwalin's back. Then Dwalin is fully seated. For a heartbeat they just look at each other. Delirious and consumptive.

Their bodies move, at first it's like a fight, grinding against each other, until they learn the form, the shape of the other and it becomes more like a dance. Not a gentle one, it's full of heat and raw want, it's a dance preparing for war.

Slick heat and sweat and the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, mixed with their moans and groans. It doesn't take long until Dwalin is thrusting hard and frantic and Thorin throws his head back against the pillow, whiting out everything for a second until he comes, red-hot pleasure shooting through his veins while Dwalin strokes him through his orgasm. He clenches around him and two, three hard thrusts later Dwalin is coming, too.

It's always a mess afterwards, but Thorin couldn't care less. They lie naked and exhausted, their skin slowly cooling down again. Then sleep claims them both.

 

Thorin wakes up from the alarm clock of his phone. With a grumbled curse he gets up and tumbles over to where his trousers lay. The world is spinning and he's still drunk, but he has to attend this teacher's meeting he entirely forgot about. For a moment he thinks of just going back to bed.

“Shit,” he swears. Between the sheets, Dwalin stirs, then gets up as well.

“God damn why are you up?” he rumbles, his Scottish accent thicker now.

“Teacher's meeting,” Thorin answers and picks up his ruined shirt. Dwalin snorts and laughs quietly. With a few steps that look entirely the way Thorin feels – tired, disorientated and drunk – he goes to his wardrobe. Then a fresh shirt hits Thorin in the face.

“Take it,” Dwalin growls. Thorin nods thankfully.

 

He's not sure whether coffee was a good idea. He throws the cup into a trash can still half full. Nausea is twisting his guts while the tube is taking a left turn. Good lord.

When he arrives at the meeting he feels like he's on his way to the grave. Well, he'd say he'll never drink again, but he's over self-deception for twenty years.

With shaking hands he opens the door to the meeting room. He's 15 minutes late, but nobody seems to care. They are talking and discussing and Thorin just prays for it to be over soon so he can go home and puke out his guts. At some point he feels the stare of someone in his back. He turns around and catches Thranduil's gaze that is fixed to his neck. Unconsciously he puts his hand over the spot, it hurts faintly. The memory of Dwalin's lips and teeth at his neck makes goosebumps crawl over his arm. Thranduil looks terribly smug and at the same time disgusted. Thorin gives him his most murderous and obscene smile. Thranduil looks away.

 

When he finally arrives home he knows how Ulysses must've felt when he came back to Ithaca. And with the same violence that Ulysses slaughtered the contenders for his throne, he spills his guts into the toilette.

After brushing his teeth and drinking two cups of tea he lays down and sleeps until the next morning. After a hearty breakfast the world seems a good place again. As much as it ever will that is.

It's between classes that he realises he has still Dwalin's shirt. The whole last two days he had dwelt on this night, shuddered in memory of their kisses and the sight of Dwalin's cock moving in and out of him, the memory of how it felt to have him inside – but it was more an unconscious thing, like a place his thoughts returned to without him commanding them there. Now adrenaline rushes through his veins when he thinks of Dwalin. To notice they haven't even swapped numbers is dreadful.

When he meets Fili and Kili this afternoon and he sees Kili's longing expression when he talks about that ginger girl (Tauri- Toriel- Traiel- whatever her name was) he feels rather connected. He lays a heavy hand on Kili's shoulder while Fili rolls his eyes. What did Dwalin say? To be young again. Well, Thorin did not ask for it and here he is. He tells Kili the secret every man discovers in his life that at least temporarily distracts from heartache. Alcohol. (Not that both of his nephews were probably drunk more often than he was in his 20s. Oh student life.)

 

The third day after passes on and Thorin lays awake in his bed. His treacherous hand moves over his belly and further down while he thinks of Dwalin on his knees in front of him.

 

It's Tuesday morning and his mood is cooking chilli somewhere down in hell. His pupils are even quieter than usual. He wishes he could scream at them, but none of them behaves out of order. They've all learned their vocabulary exceptionally. It does not lighten his mood. When the break starts and he bumps into Thranduil on the way to the coffee machine and Thranduil gives one of his usual subliminal insulting comments, he doesn't even blink. Thranduil's stare is haughty but surprised. People, pupils as well as other teachers avoid him like the black death this day. To say he's glad is a bit too positive for his mood.

The evening is still young when he think to himself, fuck it. He takes his coat, throws a last glance into his mirror and steps out of the door. The way to the bar is longer than it has ever been before and his heart is racing by the time that he arrives. He wasn't even sure if the bar is open, but god yes, it is open. He opens the door hesitantly, feels like a complete twat, but goes in anyway.

Dwalin is cleaning the counter and doesn't notice him until he stands right in front of him. He looks up. Thorin's heart beats even faster.

“Hey,” he says grumpily. Dwalin gives him one of his smiles.

“Whiskey?” he asks. Thorin shakes his head. Dwalin raises his eyebrows. Thorin clears his throat.

“I still have your shirt.”

“Oh. Right.” Dwalin scratches his head and it makes him look like one of those tough school boys caught picking flowers. “Well,” Dwalin says expectantly. That's the moment Thorin realises that he hasn't taken the shirt with him.

“It's … still at my place.”

Dwalin bursts out laughing. It sounds a bit too excited. Thorin smirks.

“Well, nobody in anyway,” Dwalin says, “and I really, uhm, need this shirt back.”

“Of course,” Thorin says.

In less than two minutes Dwalin has locked up and they stand outside. Then Dwalin throws his arm around Thorin's shoulder. They laugh and they kiss and he feels like he's young again, but better.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first take on Dworin and I hope it came out believable. Let me know what you think.


End file.
